Dream Thief (65 page)

Spence found it strange that he should feel so calm at this moment; he had no fear, no terror, not even any alarm that he should be so close to the monster's own chamber. It was as if, once resigned to facing the thing before him, it held no more terror for him. Its power over him was broken. And yet he knew that could not be the entire explanation; there had to be something more.

He heard a rustle beside him and someone moved. “Yes, he is here,” said Kyr, raising his hands before the door. “I feel his presence …” He paused and added, “but the life force is growing weaker.”

Spence reached out and pushed the door. It swung open easily and he stepped through the low stone archway and into a large room reeking of incense and hung in a brown cloudy haze. Large stone vases lined the walls of the room and candles burned in clusters all around. At a further end, on a stone dais amid a sea of bright-colored cushions, slumped the old Martian all alone.

The ancient head came up slowly, feebly. The great yellow eyes opened and regarded them with cool contempt. The wattled throat trembled and the mouth opened. “So, here you are at last. Guardian.”

Kyr stepped forward slowly. “Who are you?” He spoke so that Spence could understand him.

“I have worn many names in the time of my life. Which would you like to know? Brasputi—that is how I am known to many. Dream Thief, some call me, I am told. Ortu was my name when I walked among my own kind.” He tilted his head up to regard the imposing form of Kyr. “It is strange seeing one of my race after so long.”

“Ortu,” Kyr breathed, his head weaving back and forth. “Why?”

Words unspoken passed between the two aliens. Ortu accepted the authority of Kyr, for his gaze slid away. He said, “I will tell you.” His eyes closed and his head sank back to his chest and as if in a trance, he began to speak:

"We sought the far stars and I led many bright ships to homes under different suns. But always there burned in my mind the beauty of this world and its people. It seemed to me favored of all the worlds I had seen. When the
vimana
under my command malfunctioned we could search no more and I led my colony back here. We came to this place, then little inhabited. We lived here in peace for many long years. But we established no colony—the radiation that damaged our
vimana
also damaged our bodies and we could no longer reproduce our own kind.

“In time our people died, some through the strange diseases of this world, some through age, some were killed by the primitive Earthmen we tried to help. I alone was left of all who had come. And here I remain.”

“You know it is forbidden to interfere with the Earthmen. You, Ortu, argued it before the Council. You were the one who showed us the way of courage.”

Ortu was silent for a long time. His body trembled and he seemed to be disintegrating before their eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had changed, lapsing into the whistling lilt of Martian speech, though the words were still Earth words. “We were doomed. My colony would never flourish, never achieve the bright vision I had worked so hard to make reality. We were
dying…”

Again a long silence. And then his voice came again, still more strained, with Martian and Earth speech freely mixed together.

"To die unsung by the Sons of Ovs …
helith vsi jvan …
tried to help, to teach them, but
renni ospri
… so primitive. It took so long, so long …
bvur elchor shri.
I wanted to teach them. I waited years, but progress was too slow. I burned for them.

“One by one the bright ones died …
rsis Atri, Pulastya, Kratu, Vasistha, Pulacha, Marici, Angiras
…” The words were familiar to Spence, who remembered that these were the names of the gods of Indian folklore Adjani's father had told them about. These had been Ortu's comrades, now long dead, but still remembered and strangely revered in India's fantastic legends.

As Spence had suspected, the coming of the Martians had given birth to one of the most widespread enduring religions of mankind. Hinduism was founded upon a primitive misunderstanding, a mistake of cosmic proportions.

Spence stared at the ancient Martian as the wavering voice went on.

“The errors, the needless slaughter, the
sengri.
We tried to teach them … we loved them, but they would not understand.” At this the crinkled eyelids snapped open once more and the yellow eyes glared out defiantly. “Is it any wonder I learned in time to hate them? Their world was perfect, and yet they were bent on destroying it!”

“You had no right!” shouted Spence. Ortu's head swung wobbily toward him.

“Benasthani risto!
No right? I took it on myself. I had the
kastak
—the power. The only way to keep them from destroying this world and themselves was to bring them under my rule, and for this I have labored centuries of your time.” Ortu shrugged and seemed to grow weary of talking. His head fell forward on his sunken chest and he closed his eyes once more.

“I don't believe you,” said Spence. He quivered inside with rage at what had been done to him by the twisted and perverted creature before him.

“I had power,” muttered Ortu. “With the
tanti
I planted ideas, dreams in men's mind bringing them ever closer to the time when I would reveal myself as their ruler. But it is over now …”

The hairless head rolled on the shoulders and the terribly thin, wasted limbs fell feebly aside. The body teetered momentarily and then toppled forward, onto the cushions, on its side. It jerked once convulsively and then lay still.

“No!” shouted Spence, rushing forward. He wanted to pound the life back into that obscene body and make it talk to him, to tell him why the things he had been made to suffer had been done to him. He felt cheated and used and violated.

“He is dead.” Spence felt cool hands on him as he stood seething over the body of the Dream Thief.

“But how?”

“He was very old and sick. The seeds of his destruction were sown long ago. Only the power of the
kastak
kept him alive. Now, he has joined the bright ones. It is over.”

“No. It isn't over.” Spence looked around the room quickly, coming to himself. “Where's Hocking? We've got to find him before…”

Just then they heard a stifled gasp and turned to see a slightly bowed figure standing in the doorway. It was Fundi, the old manservant, with his hand over his mouth, eyes wide with amazement.

Spence went over to him and grabbed him by the arm before he could run away. The servant's face had gone white and he stared at the body of his master lying so still on the cushions.

“Where are the others?”

“Is … my master…?” Fundi turned his wide eyes on Spence and Kyr in turn. His expression was one of fear and relief mingled in equal proportions.

“Yes, he is dead,” said Spence. “Tell us where the others are. Where's Ari and her father?” he demanded, shaking the servant's arm.

At that moment Adjani and Gita appeared in the doorway. They looked at the body of the dead Martian, and then Adjani announced, “We can't find them—Ari, her father. Hocking. We've been all over this part of the palace.”

“Where are they?” Spence shouted at the servant who still gazed at his fallen master. The man mumbled something unintelligible.

“He says that his master's
vimana
has been made ready,” replied Gita.

“Quick!” said Spence, pushing the bewildered Fundi before him. “Take us to them! Hurry!”

Kyr stooped over the ancient body of the Dream Thief, folding its limbs and arranging it carefully. “Go,” he said. “I will join you.”

Spence, Gita, and Adjani left the chamber pushing Fundi ahead of them. As they entered the corridor they heard a low rumble, which shook the foundations of the palace to its mountain roots.

“What was that?” exclaimed Spence. He and Adjani looked at each other.

“It sounded like a blast.”

“It was the
vimana
of my master, no doubt,” said Fundi.

They dashed through the passageway and out into the courtyard. Over stones thick with moss they ran and stopped to stand looking at a brightly blazing orange star that burned up into the heavens, diminishing rapidly.

White smoke still billowed from the ruins of the collapsed central dome, which for centuries had sheltered the vehicle.

“Hocking!” said Spence.

When they burst into the tower keep they found August Zanderson sitting with his head in his hands moaning and whimpering.

“Director, what happened?” said Adjani rushing to his side.

A quick look around the room confirmed Spence's worst fears: Ari was gone. He knew, even before her father told them, that Hocking had taken her with him to make good his escape.

“Where's he taking her?” asked Spence, dark fire flashing from his eyes.

“I can't be sure, but I think he intended to go back to Gotham. He said something about the station being ready to receive them—he had two others with him. There may have been more.” His face, at first hopeful and expectant, now fell as the impact of what he said hit him afresh. “She's gone. We can't catch them now—it'll be days before we can get a shuttle up. Oh,” he moaned, running his hand through his hair. The man was vastly changed since Spence had last seen him. He looked gaunt and haggard; a straggly, speckled beard of coarse stubble lined his jaw. His eyes were red-rimmed and deeply pouched.

“We'll catch them,” said Spence.

“We'd better hurry,” said Adjani. “They have a good head start.”

T
HEIR PLAN FAILED MISERABLY.
Hocking reached the station first and was ready for them. A brief scuffle in the docking bay—resulting in taser darting all around for the would-be rescuers—put a swift end to the rescue attempt.

Spence came to lying facedown in a cell, groggily shaking off the effects of the taser dart and wondering what had happened. They had counted on Director Zanderson's sudden forceful appearance to throw the mutineers into panic, thereby giving them time to marshall the help they needed from Gotham's alarmed populace.

But they never had a chance to sound the alarm. Chief Ramm and his men had been waiting for them the moment they stepped from the craft. It was all masterfully calculated.

Looking at it now, Spence wondered why they had thought it could have turned out any differently. They acted foolishly and had been easily outsmarted by Hocking. How could it have been otherwise? Their every move had been foreseen.

Now he was alone in a cell in the security section, feeling as if someone had clubbed him and then used him for a pidg bird. He felt weak and mushy inside, his limbs trembled with the neurological aftereffects of the taser jolt, his mouth tasted of blood, and his nose throbbed from taking the full force of his headfirst dive into the floorplates when the dart hit him.

With a groan he rolled into a sitting position and saw a small puddle of dried blood where his face had pressed against the floor. He hesitantly touched a finger to his nose and found it painfully swollen, but probably not broken. It had bled freely all over his jumpsuit.

On his hands and knees he dragged himself to the small vestibule set in the wall. He ran water in the tiny sink and splashed it on his face, washing the blood from his cheek and neck. He rinsed out his mouth, spit, and then glanced at himself in the mirror.

The forlorn image he saw staring back at him did not greatly cheer him. Nor did his prospects for the immediate future.

What would they do with him? And the others? Then he remembered Ari. Hot black rage flowed up like molten lava within him. Where was she? What had they done to her?

His rage burned out in futile ravings and exhausted itself in hurling him against the clear plastic door to his cell. He slid once more to the floor to sit with his back against the door, panting, crying tears of anger and frustration, grinding his fists against the floor.

The wave of temper left him and he lay dejectedly against the door. It was then that he smelled something burning.

The smell of melting plastic filled the cell within seconds, throwing him into a fit of coughing. He lay down on the floor to keep from suffocating on the fumes. Smoke from a spot in the center of the floor began to rise, forming a thick black cloud on the ceiling of the cell. He watched the column of smoke, fascinated and appalled at the same time.
What the devil is going on?
he wondered.

He did not have long to find out.

There appeared in the center of the cell first a blackened circle, and then the area dipped and sank as if the floor at that spot was melting—which it was.

Black fumes rose from the floor trailing black, snaky wisps. Spence feared he would be suffocated very soon; the pocket of clear air diminished rapidly as the cloud pressed down from the ceiling.

He waited, holding his breath.

Even as he began choking on the fumes he heard the sound of tearing fabric and then, through the smoke-dark haze, saw a head pop through the hole which had formed in the floor.

The head, wearing goggles and a breathing apparatus, looked around the room and then saw him. A hand appeared and motioned him closer.

Tears streaming down his face, Spence wormed his way over to the edge, squirming on his stomach. The floor beneath him was hot like a griddle.